


Only Fools Rush In

by Kangofu_CB



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint is oblivious, Idiots Squared, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Steve Rogers wooing technique needs work, and very amused Natasha, featuring 'so done with this shit' best friend Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21740917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: Steve hasn’t got a goddamn clue what he’s doing.It’s not like he can ask Clint out to the local dance hall for a lindy hop, alright, even if he knew how to dance.Which-He’d asked Clint to teach him to dance, Clint had said Natasha was maybe a better choice ‘cos she’s a better dancer, and Bucky’d laughed himself sick for days.Steve sighs.  It hadn’t been one of his better ideas.“Cheer up,” Bucky says, slapping him on the back.  “If you’re still single by Christmas, Stark owes me a flying car.”Great.  The whole team is betting on Steve’s love life.  That’s definitely gonna improve his morale.OR:Steve tries to woo Clint. Operative word being 'try'.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers
Comments: 98
Kudos: 452
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2019





	Only Fools Rush In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sara_holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/gifts).



> This fic was written for the 2019 Charity Hawktion for Sara Holmes, who graciously bid on me, then shook the entire community by asking for Amerihawk, the idiots in love version. 
> 
> The working title for this fic was Idiot Squared, so that should give you an idea of where we're at in life. 
> 
> I love these adorable dumbasses, they are trying their best, bless them.

“You’re bein’ too subtle,” Bucky says, smirking at him over the rim of coffee mug. 

Steve aims a kick at his ankles, but Bucky sidesteps quickly enough that Steve misses him entirely. Luckily, the object of his affections - oblivious though he might be - is already out of earshot, flopping on the couch in the common room to wave the paper Steve’s just given him over his head.

“Nat! Nat look, Steve’s given me a drawing of Lucky!”

Which isn’t true. Or, well, it’s only partially true. Steve’s just given Clint a sketch of _himself_ , curled up in a sunspot with Lucky the last time Kate had brought the dog to the tower, because Steve is an idiot who hasn’t figured out how to make Clint notice him.

“Fuck off,” Steve tells Bucky, hiding his sulk by diving into the commercial-sized refrigerator for orange juice. 

Orange juice which Sam has drank all but the last quarter inch of, because he’s exactly the sort of vexing bastard to do something like that. He’s probably done it to irk Bucky, but Steve is his victim. 

“Language,” Bucky sing-songs, like hasn’t heard Steve say worse before they were even out of grade school. He waits for Steve to get the coffee going - he makes two cups, one black with a splash of milk for himself and the other with at least a tablespoon of sugar - and for Steve to slide the sugar-infused mug across the counter to Natasha, who hands it to Clint with an amused look. 

“Aw, Cap, you shouldn’t have,” Clint says happily as he raises the mug to his lips with a look that’s something like euphoria on his face. Steve sighs. _Cap_ wasn’t really what he was going for in this situation.

“You really shouldn’t have,” Bucky agrees quietly, still grinning. “You should try using your big boy words, Rogers; you might get farther.”

“Easy for you to say,” Steve grumbles, settling at the counter with his own mug, “you came back to life and rekindled a romance with an old flame, it’s not like you had to work for it.”

“That’s not true,” Bucky says thoughtfully, “I had to let her beat the shit out of me at least twice as a proper apology before she’d even consider dinner.”

“I thought that was just how assassin courting rituals worked.”

“If it is, maybe you should try it,” Bucky advises, cocking his head at where Clint is now sprawled on the couch, dangling what looks like the string from his hoodie for Natasha’s cat, Liho, to try and catch. “Anything’s gotta be better than what you’re currently doing.”

The worst part is Bucky’s not _wrong_. Steve’s _trying_ , he’s _been_ trying, but Clint is a special sort of oblivious that Steve can’t seem to crack. And it’s not like Steve’s any _good_ at this. 

“This is like the time I told you to say goodnight to Peggy and you _actually_ said goodnight,” Bucky snickers, and-

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Steve grumbles, because that had been embarrassing enough, but now it’s like he’s reliving the modern version. Give Steve a new piece of technology to figure out or a mission to plan and he’s fine. ‘The Star-Spangled Man With The Plan’ which, while stupid, was not untrue. But put him in front of a romantic interest and it’s like he turns into a blithering idiot. Plus, wooing men is just _different_. It was already impossible to talk to women, but at least it had been acceptable 70 years ago. Back then Steve couldn’t even risk giving men a second glance, much less trying to figure out how to ask them out. Sure now it’s all fine and dandy, but Steve hasn’t got a goddamn clue what he’s doing. 

It’s not like he can ask Clint out to the local dance hall for a lindy hop, alright, even if he knew how to dance.

Which-

He’d asked Clint to teach him to dance, Clint had said Natasha was maybe a better choice ‘cos she’s a better dancer, and Bucky’d laughed himself sick for days. 

Steve sighs. It hadn’t been one of his better ideas.

“Cheer up,” Bucky says, slapping him on the back. “If you’re still single by Christmas, Stark owes me a flying car.”

Great. The whole team is betting on Steve’s love life. That’s definitely gonna improve his morale.

**

Steve’s next attempt is grander.

It’s not grander because Steve is trying grand gestures, it’s grander because _Clint_ made a grand attempt at getting _crushed by a falling building_ and while Steve would _actually_ like to throttle what’s left of the life out of him, he’s been convinced by Natasha that flowers would be more appropriate than a lecture.

“He’s been falling off, through, and into buildings for most of his career, Steve. He’s not going to stop because you made the Disappointed Dad face at him. Get him a get well gift instead,” she’d said, smirking. 

It isn’t like she’s wrong. Clint has been an Avenger as long as Steve has, and he’d been a secret SHIELD agent before that, and he’d been a reckless circus performer slash petty criminal before _that_ , so Clint was no stranger to being hurt. 

Steve is just not very good at watching people he cares about get hurt. 

So he turns up in the Tower medical suites with a vase of the most purple of all purple flower arrangements - a variety of blooms he can’t even begin to identify and which would probably have sent his lungs into a fit of hysterics seventy years ago - and feeling vaguely determined to _make_ Clint see reason. 

Right up until he walks into the room and finds Clint with a red-lit oxygen probe on his finger going “ET phone home” and poking Sam in the middle of the forehead as he solemnly says “Ow”. Over and over. 

Steve sighs.

They’ve given him the good drugs.

Which makes sense because his left leg is in a plaster cast from thigh to toes, his toenails already painted a sparkling pink (probably by Natasha) and various scrapes, bruises and cuts across his face and the exposed skin Steve can see. 

Of course Steve would fall for a reckless, accident-prone idiot with the self-preservation of a gnat. 

It’s his karmic punishment for the hell he put Bucky through when they were kids. 

Sam shoots him an amused look as he shoves himself out of the hard plastic chair by Clint’s bedside. “Well, my work here is done,” he says, as though he’s accomplished anything other than keeping Clint occupied until Steve turned up. 

Which, in fairness, is something of an accomplishment. Clint is notorious for escaping medical at the earliest opportunity, often earning himself new stitches or more casting in the process. 

Clint stops poking Sam long enough to look up and see Steve standing awkwardly in the doorway, shuffling his feet and juggling the enormous flower arrangement that had seemed sensible in the shop but now just seems ostentatious. 

And considering the medical suites in the Tower were designed and furnished by Tony Stark, that’s saying something. 

Clint raises his arms, one wrist wrapped in stiff zinc tape, and two fingers of the other hand splinted together. He still manages to make grabby hands, and Steve still manages to find it somehow endearing. “Are those for me?” Clint asks, looking much more excited than one flower arrangement calls for. 

On the other hand, there aren’t any _other_ flowers in the room, even though it’s obvious that the others have visited. Clint’s toenails are still sparkly, and Sam’s obviously delivered his usual trash-can-basketball hoop because it’s already propped in the furthest corner of the room, exactly where Clint will have to bank his shots off at least two obstacles to get anything in it, which is exactly what he likes. There’s a half-drunk, virulently green smoothie on the side table that means Tony’s at least had one of the robots deliver it even if he hasn’t been here himself, and beside it is Bucky’s second-best switchblade, as though Clint hasn’t already probably sequestered at least two knives of his own in his cast. 

The absurd floral display seems somehow less personal than all the other gifts Clint’s already received, and Steve’s got no idea how he keeps fouling this up so badly. 

Clint’s hands are still out, though, motioning for the flowers like he’s going to hug them to his chest. Steve sets them on the _other_ bedside table instead, and Clint pouts up at him, somehow managing to look adorable even with a bandaid across his nose and three days’ worth of stubble.

“Could you _please_ ,” Steve implores, “stop falling off of buildings? Please. I am begging you.” 

Clint squints at him like he can’t quite see straight, and Steve wonders if he’s concussed. “The building fell on _me_ ,” he says, like that’s any kind of argument. 

“You could honestly stop doing that too.”

The flowers seem to have absorbed all of Clint’s attention, though, because he doesn’t respond and he’s staring at them with his head cocked, like he can’t quite figure them out. “These are for me?” he checks, like Steve would have bought an all-purple flower arrangement for anyone _else_ they know. 

“Yes,” Steve tells him, chewing on his lip. “They’re for you.”

“Because I got hurt?” Clint checks again, like he can’t fathom the idea. And Steve has to mentally run through the last half-dozen times Clint got hurt, because he can’t recall if he turned up with some kind of get-well gift. It comes to him after a moment though. 

“I brought you a dart board last time,” Steve sensibly points out. He also very sensibly does _not_ point out that Clint raided the procedure cart and used scalpels rather than the sticky darts that came with the board as projectiles. Steve had been informed that items which might inspire use of weaponry would no longer be permitted. 

“You did!” Clint brightens at the reminder. “So they’re get well flowers, gottit.”

Somehow Steve feels that Clint’s missing the point, but he’s also not wrong, and he’s _also_ drugged to the gills, so Steve lets the point slide. 

“Want to play cards?” Steve asks instead, dragging the plastic chair closer to the bed and pulling a pack of playing cards out of his pocket. Steve counts cards and Clint cheats horribly, so between the two of them they’re just about evenly matched. 

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Clint says happily, scooting himself up on his pillows and grimacing as his leg shifts on the bed. 

Steve takes it as a yes, and begins shuffling. 

***

Steve has just delivered flower arrangement number five for broken arm number who-the-fuck-knows-at-this-point when he finds Bucky in his suite of rooms, determinedly pouring what looks like Tony’s very expensive scotch into a tumbler and then downing it with aplomb.

“Are you…” Steve pauses, assessing the situation. “You know you can’t get drunk, right?”

“I’m starting to figure that out, yeah,” Bucky replies, pouring himself another. “But the action is soothing, you see, on account of how it’s exactly like 1944 and I’m watching you fail miserably at romantic interaction. It drives a man to drink.”

Steve rolls his eyes at the dramatics. “It’s fine,” he says, fully aware that he is in complete denial of reality. It’s not fine. Nothing about it is fine. He’s bought Clint flowers every time he’s got hurt for the last three months, he’s taken him for coffee, he’s walked Lucky when Clint couldn’t, and when Lucky wasn’t available to walk he’s taken Clint to the dog park so he could get his weekly dose of dog slobber. 

It’s _fine_. Steve’s totally got a handle on this.

“Do you remember,” Bucky says thoughtfully, and Steve perks up, because seldom does _Bucky_ start a trip down memory lane, “that time that Peggy asked you to walk her home? And you were planning that infiltration of that base, so you didn’t go because you were busy looking at maps of Meissen?”

Steve groans. “This isn’t like that, I’m fully aware of-”

“Clint is the Steve in this situation, you fuckin’ idiot,” Bucky interrupts, pouring himself a third drink. 

Steve is fairly certain you aren’t meant to down two fingers of whiskey like a shot, but he doesn’t say anything because he’s too busy being absolutely mortified by the sudden realization that _Bucky is right_. 

Peggy hadn’t wanted an _escort_ , she’d been angling for something a little more… intimate. _Dum Dum Dugan_ had been the one to finally point it out to Steve, hours too late, when all the Howlies were falling asleep leaning on their elbows and Bucky’d long since propped his feet on the table and leaned back in the chair and ignored Steve with all the obstinate determination of someone who’d sat at his sick bed through at least three ‘fatal’ bouts of pneumonia. 

_“If you’d just gone off with Ms. Carter like she’d wanted, you’d have been occupied all night with somethin’ less cerebral and we’d all be in our beds by now.”_

Steve is unlikely to ever forget the searing heat of embarrassment it had brought. 

“Could you _please_ ,” Bucky says plaintively, when he’s got the third drink swallowed and is pouring a fourth, “just ask the man on a goddamn date?”

“I took him for coffee on Monday,” Steve argues. That counts as a date, right? Coffee dates are absolutely a modern thing. 

Bucky mutters something unflattering in Russian, low and vicious enough that Steve doesn’t catch the words but he can’t miss the tone. “Listen to me, you mook. This was funny six months ago, and we started betting on it four months ago, but now it’s just sad. I don’t even want a flying car anymore. Stop buying him flowers and offer to suck his dick, for fucks’ sake.”

Steve gapes at him. He- “I will _not_ ,” he says. “I’ve got manners, you dick, your Ma would-”

“My ma is in heaven literally praying for you to ask Clint Barton to fondue so she doesn’t have to watch this travesty anymore, Jesus Christ. I don’t care what you say to him,” Bucky continues over Steve’s spluttering, “ask him to canoodle, ask him to pound town, pick whatever euphemism you like or _maybe_ justsay _‘Hey Barton, want to go on a date?’_ but for the love of all that is holy just do _something_.” Bucky takes a deep breath and another shot. The bottle is at least half-empty. “It’s not that hard, just ask him to do something you both like to do, use the word date, and then maybe invite yourself in for a nightcap.” 

He gets up, leaving the glass and the open bottle of whiskey on the table. “God, this is as bad as Peggy,” he grumbles, shooting Steve a dirty look. “No, it’s worse than Peggy, because Peggy wasn’t an idiot.”

“Hey,” Steve says, offended on Clint’s behalf. “Clint’s not an idiot.”

“You’re _both_ idiots,” Bucky shoots back. “Idiot Squared. Clint’s great in the field but he’s _oblivious_ off of it, and your half-ass attempts at wooing aren’t _working_. I can’t watch this anymore. It’s physically painful.” He stalks to the door, his face all bunched up in that frustrated way it gets when Steve’s done something particularly irritating, like ‘forgetting’ his parachute. He turns back to Steve as he opens the door and lifts a threatening finger, reminding Steve so viscerally of Ma Barnes that he actually takes a step back in self-defense. “If you don’t do something about this, I’m gonna,” Bucky warns, then swans out the door oozing the very essence of so-done-with-your-shit. 

“Well, hell,” Steve mutters, slumping onto the sofa. 

***

He asks Clint on a date. 

Or he thinks he does. 

He makes it a point to say “It’s a date,” when he confirms, which makes Clint give him a hesitantly confused look, but Clint turns up in the practice gym at the agreed-upon time anyway. He’s dressed in sweats and an old t-shirt, which is perfect for what Steve’s invited him to do - throw the shield around in increasingly improbable maneuvers and angles. Bucky had said to invite Clint to do something they both liked, and, well, Clint likes throwing the shield around. He’s got a knack for it, sometimes even more than Steve, making crazy ricochets and acrobatic leaps to make sure the edges of it smack soundly into his palms.

It doesn’t hurt that Steve likes to watch Clint toss the vibranium around. He swings it with his whole body, his muscles on display in a completely different way than when he’s shooting his bow or even when he’s leaping from roof to roof. Today is no exception, the worn-thin cotton of his shirt perfectly highlighting lats and traps and his biceps bulging with the effort of tossing and catching and keeping up with Steve. 

There’s a perfectly executed wallflip in which Clint both catches and releases the shield with perfect accuracy before his feet touch the ground that leaves Steve so distracted he nearly misses the catch. 

By the time they’re done, both of them sweating and Clint panting with exertion, Steve thinks he’s _nailed_ it. Clint is beaming, shaking his muscles out in the center of the room and bouncing on his toes. He’s clearly pleasantly tired from the exercise and just as clearly reaching kid-at-Christmas levels of excitement. 

Steve can’t help the way he grins back, letting the shield dangle from his fingertips as he steps closer. He’s just about to say something - Bucky’d mentioned inviting himself up for a nightcap, and maybe he can’t do that, but he could offer to walk Clint back to his rooms, maybe see if he can’t swing himself a goodnight kiss - when the door slams open and Clint jumps back like he’s been electrocuted. 

Steve turns with a sigh, and like he’s been summoned by Steve’s errant thought, Bucky walks through the door, Natasha trailing behind him. Both of them are in workout gear, sleek and form-fitting and black, like they’re matching models in an exercise routine video. 

Clint lights up when he sees them, different from how he’d been looking at Steve but just as excited. “Nat!” he calls, breaking out into something that’s almost a jog as he meets her halfway across the room. She stops to wait for him, looking bemused, and Bucky makes his way to where Steve is watching his plans for the evening slip through his fingers. 

“This your idea of a _date_ , Rogers?” he asks, something like horrified amusement coloring his tone. 

Steve doesn’t answer but he can feel heat creeping up his throat and into his face and it has nothing to do with the exercise he’s been engaging in. “Jesus _christ_ ,” Bucky mutters, shaking his head. “Really?” he sounds disbelieving. “This was your big idea?”

“What?” Steve hisses. “It worked, didn’t it? You said to do something he liked! We had fun, he’s happy, I think it went well, I was just thinking-”

“No, no it was _awesome_ ,” Clint says, loud enough to cut across their conversation, and Steve looks up to see him gesticulating wildly as he describes something in animated detail. It only takes a second for Steve to realize he’s talking about how they banked the shield off of four obstacles to get it around a corner and into Clint’s hands. “I mean I’ve never _trained_ with the shield before, just you know, thrown it around in the heat of the moment with Doombots or whatever,” he continues, oblivious to the fact that he’s crushing Steve’s happy dreams with every word he says. He still sounds just as thrilled as he had looked, but Steve’s disappointed to realize it’s not exactly for the reason he’d assumed. 

Bucky mutters something in Russian again, and Steve really needs to get Rosetta Stone or something to learn it, because it makes Natasha glance over at them and smirk devilishly. 

“You want to spar with us?” Nat says, turning back to Clint, and thoroughly ruining any ideas Steve might have had about salvaging the rest of the evening, or even swallowing his pride and explaining to Clint just exactly what’s going on here. 

“I’m kinda tired,” Clint says, giving her an evaluating look, “but I could go a couple rounds.”

“Yeah I _bet_ he could,” Bucky mutters, giving Steve a disgusted look. Then he brightens, and Steve can see the bad idea wheels turning in his head. “Look,” he tells Steve, reaching out and patting him on the shoulder just like he had in 1938 when he’d offered anything Steve needed, and 1943 when Steve had got his fourth or fifth 4F form from the Army, and even when the girls Bucky’d arranged for them to go out with had decided putting up with Steve’s prickly attitude was too much and gone off together. Steve already knows that whatever Bucky’s about to say is gonna either make him laugh or make him wanna punch something. Maybe both. 

“I know you’re havin’ a hard time Stevie,” Bucky says, staring earnestly into Steve’s eyes, “and I’m here for you. But if you don’t get your shit together and ask that man out properly, I’m gonna do it instead.”

Steve chokes on his own saliva. 

Natasha and Clint are barefoot on one of the sparring mats, far enough away that there’s no chance Clint’s heard their conversation, though it stands to reason Natasha might have. They’re facing off, circling one another gingerly, because years of partnering and sparring together means that they know each others’ tells and weaknesses. It makes any fight between them just about redundant anyway, but they still like to do it. 

“I don’t need you askin’ dates out for me Buck,” Steve growls, trying to shove Bucky off of him, but Bucky only sways with the movement. 

“I wasn’t gonna ask him for _you_ ,” Bucky says, grinning wickedly.

“You- but- Natasha?!” 

She and Clint are fighting in earnest now, punches and kicks thrown and dodged, muffled grunts as glancing blows make contact. Even like this, Clint is poetry in motion, and while Steve can see why people’s eyes are naturally drawn to Natasha, he’s only got eyes for her partner. 

Without taking his hand off of Steve’s shoulder, Bucky turns to watch the match contemplatively. “Natalia!” he calls, waits for the flick of gaze that acknowledges that he’s spoken, and then says something else in a language Steve doesn’t recognize at all. It’s not Russian, he doesn’t think, because it’s not familiar-sounding from the way Bucky grumbles in it so frequently, and even Clint looks momentarily confused. Steve knows _Clint_ speaks Russian, and a handful of other languages, because it’s in his file, and he’s heard Clint’s creative swearing when he stubs his toe on the edge of the furniture or finds the coffee pot empty. 

Whatever it is, it makes Natasha’s lips turn up in something shark-like and predatory, and Clint’s eyes widen as he puts some distance between them and takes up a more defensive posture. Even if he hasn’t understood what’s been said, he seems to realize it isn’t going to end well for him.

Not that it helps, because Natasha launches herself at him in a complex twisting maneuver that ends with Clint flat on his back on the ground in her signature thigh-hold, wheezing. She grins triumphantly at Bucky as she rests her weight on Clint’s chest comfortably, pinning his biceps with her knees.

Flopping dramatically, Clint reaches out and taps the mat, giving in to defeat. 

“Nah,” Bucky says, giving Steve’s shoulder a squeeze that would have left a weaker man flinching away. “She’d be into it,” he assures Steve, before dropping his hand and walking towards the mat. He holds his hand out to give Natasha the leverage to spring gracefully to her feet and then uses his metal arm to haul Clint up after her. 

“Hit the showers, Barton,” Bucky says, and Steve grits his teeth as Bucky puts a hand on the small of Clint’s back and gives him a gentle push in the direction of the locker room. “Maybe ask Stevie there to wash your back.”

Clint gives both of them a bewildered look as he backpedals through the door leading to the showers. “I’ll uh- I’ll see you guys later,” he stutters, and then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

“God dammit, Barnes,” Steve says, turning to stalk out of the main entrance.

“You’re welcome!” Bucky calls, laughter coloring his tone. 

***

Steve is ready to take his frustration out on everyone and everything but Clint. He’s seen the whispers and the smirks amongst the team and he knows, he just _knows_ that they’re still gossiping about him. It doesn’t help that Bucky’s confirmed they’ve all been betting about it. Steve’s never liked being the butt of a joke, even if it’s meant good-naturedly, and he’s trying not to be mad about the fact they’re all finding the situation so amusing. If he could be even a little bit objective he’d be able to admit it’s funny, but he’s not so it isn’t. 

Fortunately, he lucks out - or the team does - because there’s a small alien invasion in Vulcan, Canada (a fact that Clint can _not_ stop laughing about, even as he shoots alien after alien with some newly-developed arrow tech he and Tony had come up with) that allows Steve to punch his way through enough aliens that Bucky eventually parks himself on a snowy bench to watch. Then there’s the would-be robbers that Steve just happens upon when he passes the bank on his way to that coffee shop Clint likes in Bed-Stuy. It’s very satisfying to punch those guys in the face, especially when Steve sees the frightened toddler hiding behind his mom’s denim-clad legs.

Basically, the villain community is surprisingly cooperative about Steve’s need to punch things.

He gives himself a rotator cuff injury that actually puts him down for nearly a full day when he tries to shoulder-barge a speeding train off the tracks while Bucky pulls a stalled bus full of school kids to safety. It’s mildly satisfying to feel the ache in his shoulder right up until it goes away; it gives him something to focus on other than his own ineptitude. 

He’s still buying coffee, still walking Lucky, still walking _Clint_ whenever they’ve got down time, and he still hasn't managed to even hold the guy’s hand. It’s so tempting though, when they’re walking through Central Park and the cool, crisp New York air is turning Clint’s cheeks pink and making him wrap the fingers of both hands around his coffee cup to keep them warm. 

Steve’s bought Clint at least three pairs of gloves, and he always manages to lose at least one half of the pair inside of a week.

Steve thinks if Clint wore one of the gloves, he could offer to hold the other hand and keep it warm, but Clint never does. 

He thinks Clint is starting to catch on to the fact that _something’s_ up though. He’s giving Steve little sidelong glances, darting and cataloguing and then wrenching his gaze away just as quickly, like Steve won’t notice he’s been looking, or like he doesn’t want to get caught. He tentatively turned up on Steve’s floor a few days ago, clutching a scarf that’s thick, cable-knit wool. It’s handmade and warm and reminds Steve in an oddly specific way of the sort of thing his mom would bring home from patients’ families when she went to check up on them. 

“You looked cold,” is all Clint mumbles, fleeing before Steve has the opportunity to invite him inside. 

The scarf has been worn just about every day since, and whenever he wears it, he catches Clint looking at him again, something wistful in his gaze. 

A building falls on _Steve_ before the whole thing finally, blessedly comes to an end. 

When Steve wakes up - and wow, the _entire_ building must’ve really fallen in on his head if he’s been unconscious - Clint is standing at the foot of the bed, shuffling nervously and holding a batch of flowers that look like they’ve lost an argument with a weed wacker. There’s no vase, just Clint clutching stems tightly between his fingers.

Fingers, Steve notices, that are bruised and scraped raw, fresh and painful-looking.

“What happened?” he croaks, and Clint startles, taking a couple of steps forward before he stops and looks sheepish. 

“I uh. I brought you flowers,” Clint tells him, rather obviously. 

“Thanks,” Steve says slowly. “You didn’t have to.” He’s trying desperately not to read anything into the gesture, just like he tried not to read much into the gift of the scarf, or the way Clint keeps stealing glances. Steve’s not sure what it means, exactly, and he’s afraid to assume it means anything other than Clint’s his friend, because he’s afraid he’s projecting what he wants onto what’s actually happening. 

He wants the flowers to be because Clint _likes_ him, the way Steve likes Clint, not just because they’re pals and teammates. 

“You brought _me_ flowers,” Clint argues, inching closer. “A lotta flowers. Nice ones. Sorry these are- I um, I kinda got mugged on my way here.” 

Steve jerks up, like he’s going to do something about it, like he has the strength to get out of bed at all. Like Clint hasn’t obviously already taken care of it, if he’s standing in front of Steve holding a battered bouquet. It doesn’t stop Steve from wanting to climb out of the bed and hunt down whoever’s got the impression of Clint’s knuckles in their face. He hopes they got more than that, if he’s honest.

“I mean, _I_ didn’t get mugged,” Clint’s hasty to clarify. “I just- there was a mugging happening? So I- ikindathrewyourflowersatamugger,” he mumbles, and it takes Steve a second to parse it out. 

He’d blame the drugs, but he’s hurting bad enough to know they’ve long since worn off. It’s probably why he’s awake. 

“You… threw flowers at a mugger?” Steve asks, wondering if he’s still got anesthesia in his system. That’s a new one, even for Clint.

Clint winces. “It was what I had available at the time, you know? I mostly managed to rescue the actual flowers. Vase shattered on impact.”

“Did it impact on someone’s head?” Steve asks, clawing his remaining consciousness up enough to feel amused by the idea that Clint has used a floral arrangement as a _weapon_. It’d be ingenious if it weren’t so goddamn stupid. 

“Might have done,” Clint says. He lays the flowers carefully on the bedside table next to Steve, picking at them just so, until he finally either runs out of stems to straighten or decides he’s fussed with them enough. He can’t quite look Steve in the eye, for some reason. 

“Hey,” Steve says, reaching out and fumbling for Clint’s sore, raw hand. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Clint gives him a crooked grin, like he’s not got a bruise already forming at the edge of his jaw and his shirt’s not torn in three places. “Better than you, anyway.”

And it strikes Steve suddenly, that he’s on the other side of what Clint must feel like far too frequently. Stuck in bed, injured, unable to help or do anything for anyone else, and Steve - Steve’ll heal up in a few hours’ time - but Clint is often down for days or weeks, even with Dr. Cho’s machines and the best medicine Tony can buy. 

And, Steve realizes, Clint is on the side of the bed that _Steve_ is usually on, watching his friend and teammate - and maybe something more; Steve barely dares to hope - lie in a bed because he’s nearly died. 

All of Steve’s reasons for tiptoeing around the issues, all his subtle attempts to feel out the situation and get Clint’s attention, all his pining and his frustration, and his avoidance surrounding the decision to not outright _tell_ Clint how he feels seem stupid and disingenuous. Like excuses. Like _cowardice_. 

Steve Rogers is a lot of things, but he’s never been a coward. Even when he’d been nervous around Peggy, he hadn’t been afraid to tell her the truth, and he can’t even say why he hasn’t tried to talk to Clint before, not really, not honestly, but he does know that he’s out of patience and excuses, because who knows when one of them will be in this bed again. Or worse. 

He squeezes the fingers tangled with his very carefully, unwilling to cause more pain and unable to let go. Clint squeezes back, not nearly as gingerly, and Steve can see the concern written in the lines of his face, the way he keeps tracing over what he can see of Steve’s body, white bandages peeking out from under the soft shirt he’s wearing. 

“Hey,” Steve says again, tugging Clint a little closer with the hand he’s still holding. “Hey I gotta tell you something.”

Clint looks confused, but he crowds in until he can perch on the edge of the bed and Steve can hold their hands together against his chest, where his heart is beating slow and steady, the same as it always has, ever since Erskine gave him the serum. No more missed beats, except sometimes when he looks and Clint and _feels_ like his heart is going to skip a few. 

“I think I’m in love with you,” Steve tells him very seriously, tracking Clint’s expression carefully. 

Clint blinks in shock, and then there’s a sort of cautious warm expression that gets smothered again in concern. “Did they give you the horse tranquilizers again, Rogers? Because that’s uh…. You know I’m Clint right? You don’t think I’m…. Bucky or something?”

Steve rolls his eyes. Because of course Clint doesn’t believe him, but _Bucky_? _Really?_

“I know Bucky’s dumb mug when I see it,” he reassures Clint, “and it’s yours I’d rather be looking at.”

Clint makes no move to pull his hand away from Steve’s but he looks increasingly doubtful, and Steve doesn’t like it. “I think they gave you the good drugs,” Clint hedges, and starts gently untangling his fingers from Steve’s. “Maybe we should talk about this later, if you still want to.”

“It’s not the drugs,” Steve growls, torn between exasperation and amusement. “I just like you, why is that so hard to believe?”

Finally managing to get his hand free, Clint makes a gesture that sort of encompasses everything about him, from his disheveled hair to his ripped shirt to his bruises and scrapes. It’s a kind of self-deprecating, half-shrug that infuriates Steve. “I mean, have you seen me?” Clint jokes half-heartedly. 

Steve opens his mouth to argue, to list all the ways he thinks Clint is amazing - he’s an Avenger, for God’s sake, with all that entails, in addition to being a good man with a good heart - but he can see Clint withdrawing emotionally, if not physically, slipping behind a mask of good-natured humor and _aw, shucks_ midwestern manners. Something in Steve snaps and - mentally sending an apology upwards, may his Ma in heaven forgive him - he reaches out and wraps a fist in Clint’s t-shirt, dragging him forward. 

He catches a glimpse of Clint’s startled face, the flinch at Steve’s quick motion and the reflex to catch himself on the rail and not fall on Steve’s bruised and battered chest, and then their mouths are smacking together in something that can only be considered a kiss because their mouths are _technically_ touching. Once Clint stops flailing, though, Steve uses his other hand to cup his jaw and tilt their faces into something a little better. It’s still rough and messy - Steve’s still trying to prove a point and Clint’s _always_ messy - but it’s definitely meeting the kiss definition better than the face mash they’d started out with. 

Clint is warm and strong beneath Steve’s hand, the rough scrape of stubble against his palm, and he smells like generic soap and laundry detergent and a little bit floral from the flowers he’d been carrying. He is firm and real under Steve’s grip, and he’s relaxing into the kiss more and more as the seconds pass, and Steve is so relieved that he hasn’t totally messed this up that it takes a few seconds for him to lose himself in the thing he’s been aching for for months. The slide of their mouths together, the way Clint tastes faintly of coffee even though it’s long since dark outside. The way he seems to soften under Steve’s touch, like he wants to let himself melt into it but is mindful of the fact that Steve’s injured. 

When Steve lets him go, Clint sways in place for a moment, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. It makes Steve want to yank him back down and muss him up some more, but he refrains, partially out of respect for his own injuries but mostly because his Ma raised a gentleman. The limits of that are tested when Clint opens his eyes and he looks dazed, his pupils large and round, and he licks his lips. 

“They gave you the _really_ good drugs,” Clint says, and Steve’s notoriously short temper ignites.

“There aren’t any drugs! I just like you, and if you don’t shut up about drugs I’m gonna suck your dick right now to prove it to you!”

That seems to shake Clint out of his daze and he narrows his eyes at Steve. “Don’t you threaten me with a good time, Rogers!” Then he blinks. “Wait, are we arguing about sucking dick right now? What is happening?”

“What’s happening is I’ve been trying to court you for months and you _just don’t seem to get it_ ,” Steve tells him in a huff, because yeah, they _are_ arguing about sucking dick, which is absurd but seems on brand for Clint when Steve stops to think about it. 

“You’ve been what now?”

Steve ruthlessly suppresses the embarrassment he feels admitting it out loud. “Courting you,” he grinds out, forcing the words between his teeth. “What’d you think I was doin’?”

“Uh,” Clint squints. “Bein’ nice because I got hurt? A lot?”

“Bucky’s right, you are an idiot.”

“Hey! I may be an idiot, but you’re the idiot trying to date me,” Clint says triumphantly, and unfortunately, he’s right. “Should have just told me you wanted to suck my dick months ago. You’re finally speaking my language.”

Instead of replying, Steve pulls him down for another kiss. He has just enough time to think the whole thing is basically a like car crash - unexpected, unplanned, poorly executed and with too many bystanders rubbernecking the wreckage - before Clint gets a hand down his pants and he decides he doesn’t care.

It might be a car crash, but it’s _their_ car crash, and Steve’s happy to be riding shotgun.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Sara, obviously, for her extremely generous bid and kindness throughout this process and also for yelling about dumbasses with me - planning this fic was probably the most fun I've ever had. 
> 
> And many thank yous to Steph, who beta read and cheerled it as she always does with unceasing patience, kindness, and the occasional boot up the ass for me. You are the best, Seb and I both love you very much.


End file.
